Alec’s expression held gratitude as he handed Jenny over for a quick hug, but his tone remained brisk. “Say your good-night then, and off to bed with ye.”
Celia kissed Jenny’s softly scented cheek, then she kissed Alec’s as she returned Jenny to him. He turned his head and caught her lips.
The kiss was brief but held passion. The kiss ended when Jenny squealed with impatience, and they broke apart, Alec’s laughter rumbling.
Celia’s lips tingled as she turned away to descend to their bedchamber, as did her body from the heat in Alec’s eyes. Not long later, he joined her, and the promising look he’d given her in Jenny’s attic room became truth.
The encounter with Celia’s family took place at Lady Flora’s. Alec arranged them in a tableaux in Lady Flora’s private sitting room, the one that held a portrait of Lady Flora as a young woman, a regal beauty.
Alec seated Celia on a gold damask settee near the window and stood behind her, his hand on her shoulder. He’d dressed in dark brown, his coat without frills, embroidery, lace, or trim. He’d found a white wig that settled over his dark red hair, two rolls of small, tight curls on either side of it.
Alec fixed his expression into that of a muddled country squire who was wondering what his steward might be up to while he was away. Celia wore one of the gowns Alec had asked Sally to bring to Josette’s along with her portfolio, a light summer cotton with gold and green flowers—becoming, simple, modest.
The duchess led the way into the room at high speed, and under Alec’s hand, Celia tensed. She lifted her chin, however—no crumpling under the duchess’s enraged stare.
“Explain yourself, Celia,” the duchess commanded in window-rattling tones.
The duke entered behind his wife, briefly taking in Alec before his eyes settled on his daughter.
The look of relief and love that came over the duke startled Alec. For such a long time, Alec had been picturing the man as a dire villain, one who hid away captured Jacobites for whatever nefarious purpose he had in mind.
What Alec saw was a short, plump man with a round face that held no malevolence. He had lines about his eyes, etched by a life of responsibility, not to mention marriage to a high-handed wife. At the moment, the duke’s attention was all for Celia, his expression one of thankfulness that she was well and unharmed.
The duchess moved her glare from Celia to Alec. Her face was narrow, her nose long, the eyes above that nose holding a coldness Alec had seen over a musket aimed at him on Culloden field.
It was a saying in the Highlands that a man should take a good look at his sweetheart’s mother before he stole her away, to get a glimpse into his life to come. Alec decided the saying wasn’t quite accurate—he saw nothing of Celia in this woman and nothing of her in Celia. Celia must take her kindness from the genial-looking duke and probably her interest in art and curiosities from him as well. The duchess held only coldness and ruthless ambition.
“Who are you?” the duchess demanded of Alec.
Lady Flora and Mrs. Reynolds had come in behind the duke, the mitigators in this tricky situation.
“You know who he is, Your Grace,” Lady Flora said. “Mr. Finn, the drawing master from Ireland, lately from Paris. He is a gentleman with a bit of land.”
“Barely a gentleman.” The duchess sniffed. “But I mean, who are you? What sort of land do you have? How many acres? How many in the arable? What sort of income will you be giving my daughter? Or will you be rushing to us in a few years from your Irish retreat with your hand out?”
“Now, Freya, let us not be hasty,” the duke said.
The duchess’s eyes went frosty, and Alec remembered Celia telling him her father and mother rarely used their given names with each other. A special occasion indeed.
“Hasty?” the duchess snapped. “She has defied me at every turn, and now she disgraces herself completely by marrying a … a nobody. But not for long. Your father will have the marriage annulled.”
Celia went pink, no doubt recalling the conversation with her brother about how they had no grounds for annulment. Alec drew a breath to begin the embarrassed and blundering speech that he’d prepared to argue against annulment, but Lady Flora cut in.
“Perhaps not the best recourse, Your Grace,” she said. “This step need not be a humiliation, you know. Mr. Finn is gentleman born, and could be a good resource to you. Your Grace will suffer less indignity if you put it about that the match is part of your plans. Mr. Finn can be given a courtesy title if you have approval—there is precedent for such things. And think of what you might make of the grandchildren.”
The duchess did not look mollified by Lady Flora’s words, but Alec watched the wheels begin to turn behind her eyes. If Celia had sons, she must be thinking, though they wouldn’t be in the direct line for the dukedom, they would be more people for her to manipulate.
“Hmph,” the duchess said.
Throughout this exchange, Celia looked not at her mother, but at her father. “Papa?”
“Are you happy with this man, daughter?” The duke spoke with resignation.
Celia reached up and took Alec’s hand. “I am, Papa.”
The duke gazed hard at her and then at Alec. Finally he sighed and nodded. “I did promise, didn’t I? Very well, Celia. You have my blessing.”
Celia’s mother scowled at her husband. “I see nothing blessed about it. This young man already has a babe. Celia will be a drudge to it.”
“No, indeed. Jenny is lovely,” Celia put in quickly.
“There is nothing lovely about babies.” The duchess sniffed. “I ought to know—I bore two of them. Good Lord.” She pressed her hand to her face, her eyes widening. “How will I break this news to Edward? He will have apoplexy.”
“He already knows.” Celia squeezed Alec’s hand and he squeezed back in reassurance. “We saw him—in the country, near our house. Al—Mr. Finn and I were looking for possible places to live while in England.”
“Nonsense,” the duke broke in briskly “Your home will be with us, of course, at Hungerford Park.”
The duchess ignored him. “What on earth is Edward doing home? I thought he was campaigning in France and the Netherlands.” She spoke ingenuously, apparently entirely forgetting she’d told Celia Edward waited to speak to her in the Spring Gardens at Vauxhall.
“He said he was on leave,” Celia said.
Both duke and duchess looked perplexed, and disquiet touched Alec. He’d suspected Edward of being complicit in capturing Will, but then why wouldn’t the duke know about it? His wife, a plotter if Alec ever saw one, was equally nonplussed.
“All the better that he is in England,” Lady Flora broke in. “You must have a grand celebration, a wedding reception, at Hungerford Park—your first ball of the summer—to show how pleased you are at this marriage.”
“That my daughter disobeyed me at every turn and ran away with a parvenu?” the duchess asked in incredulity.
Celia drew herself up to speak, but Alec stilled her.
“It’s all right, my dear.” He spoke in the breathy, self-deprecating voice that he’d assumed as the dithering Mr. Finn. “I am a man of no consequence and we know it. It was a love match, Your Grace … And Your Grace.” He nodded to Celia’s mother, then her father. “I am a fortunate man indeed.”
The duchess gave him a chilly look. “More than fortunate. You have your hands on a duke’s daughter and her legacy.”
“No, no,” Alec said quickly. “My man of business will see to it that her money in trust is beyond my reach.”
“Then what on earth will you live on?” the duchess asked. “Yes, Charles, you will have to fashion some sort of position for him so they will not starve altogether.” She swung to Lady Flora, eyes blazing. “I agree, Flora, that we must show the world we are not completely disgusted with this turn of events. Husband, put it about that you’ve had your eye on this man Finn for a time, and that we arranged the marriage. I will throw myself into planning a grand soiree, an
d perhaps the labor involved will help me forget my anguish that my daughter has destroyed all my hopes.”
With a swish of skirts, she sped past Lady Flora and out of the room, shrilling for her footman to attend her.
Mrs. Reynolds watched her go, a look of satisfaction on her face. Lady Flora, serenely cool, betrayed no such triumph.
Celia rose, breaking the tableaux. “Papa.”
The duke went to her, and Celia took his hands. They were of a height, the duke’s brown-green eyes so like Celia’s own. He had an ingenuous face, a man not gifted with extreme intellect, but Alec noted that he’d looked at each person in the room as a unique being without instantly categorizing them as the duchess did.
The duke touched his cheek to Celia’s. “Daughter. I am pleased to see you so happy.”
He gave her a warm smile and then held out his hand to Alec over the sofa. “I greet you, sir. Son. I hope that we may have a long and satisfying acquaintance.”
Alec clasped the duke’s hand, and the duke pressed his other hand over it, squeezing in friendship.
“As I do,” Alec answered politely.
The duke looked straight into Alec’s eyes, but Alec saw no recognition dawn, no sudden awareness that Alec was a Scotsman from the rebellious Highlands. There was no duplicity in the duke’s gaze, only tentative camaraderie and optimism.
Either the duke was a superb actor, or Alec had misjudged him entirely. Alec saw no cruelty or callousness in this man, and he realized in that moment that he’d been completely wrong—the Duke of Crenshaw had nothing to do with capturing and imprisoning his brother.
Chapter 25
The Duchess of Crenshaw’s summer ball was remarked upon for years to come, but not for the reasons, Celia knew, that the duchess could have foreseen.
In less than a week’s time, Celia and Alec were installed at Hungerford Park, a house that dated to the fourteenth century but had been built over and around so many times that the original stones could only be found in one of the cellars. Ten years ago, the facade had been redone so that rows of tall, narrow windows flooded the house with light. Celia’s father complained about the window tax, but Celia’s mother had overridden his objections.
The ballroom, on the end of the first floor and lined by three walls of these windows, had been dusted and polished, new candles set in its five chandeliers that dripped with crystals. An orchestra tuned in a gallery above, and the double doors were thrown open to a terrace that overlooked the formal gardens. Chinese paper lanterns hanging from branches of trees down the garden’s center lit the fountains and the walks.
The furnishings of the public rooms had been released from their drop cloths, the rugs beaten and relaid, the gilded frames holding precious paintings rubbed until they glowed.
The duchess had accomplished all this by bullying her staff unmercifully, and bullying her friends into accepting her invitation on short notice. It would not be forgotten, the duchess had implied, if the recipient of this invitation made their excuses or simply didn’t turn up. More than half of London society was dependent on the duke’s support, and so they duly arrived.
The Earl of Chesfield, of the red face and booming voice, arrived with his wife and sister in tow. With him came officers—a colonel, a captain, and a young lieutenant—from the regiment that boarded in his house. Uncle Perry, more refined than the earl in a neat wig and tasteful blue frock coat, greeted Chesfield and his officers and fell into conversation with them.
Celia’s father, who disliked large gatherings but suffered them for the sake of the Whig party, stood uncomfortably next to his wife, his face pink, and welcomed his flock.
Alec had managed to beg off standing in the receiving line with the duke and duchess, giving his opinion that the duke’s friends might be offended if forced to greet a nobody. A gradual introduction might be better, he suggested in his breathy, deferential voice.
The duchess agreed with Alec, looking a bit surprised he understood his lowly position. She did tell him, however, that he needed to attend in suitable attire. This she delivered with a pointed glare at Alec’s well-worn suit.
The duke offered his tailor in London. Alec hadn’t told Celia what the tailor had come up with, but when he emerged from his bedchamber to escort her downstairs, Celia saw that Alec had decided to err on the side of ostentation.
His frock coat was black velvet, but that fact could scarcely be discerned behind the silver embroidery and gold-threaded lace that covered every inch of it. Lace flowed over Alec’s blunt-fingered hands and spilled out from the top of his waistcoat. The coat’s peplum had been starched to bell out around his breeches, which were silver and gold brocade. White stockings clocked from knee to ankle covered his strong legs, and his brocade shoes were topped with buckles four inches square that glittered with diamonds.
Celia, who’d instructed her maid to dress her in modest attire—dark green velvet overskirt over a blue silk underskirt, and a fichu to cover her shoulders and bosom, stared at Alec, open-mouthed.
“Good heavens, Mr. Finn,” she exclaimed. “If you stand under a chandelier, the company will have to shield their eyes.”
“Exactly, lass.” Alec was flushed with anticipation, his eyes glittering as much as his shoe buckles. “They’ll see the hideous costume, not the man inside it. It’s what a gentleman of little means would purchase when he was told there was no limit to what he could spend. He’d go mad for a time. The tailor was a happy man.”
Celia looked him over, wanting to laugh. “I wish I could say you will be the most overdressed gentleman at the gathering, but I fear that will not be so.” She tucked her hand through the crook in his arm, thrilling, as she always did, at the strength under the soft velvet. “Every dandy and fop in London will be here, wanting a look at the man who stole away the Duke of Crenshaw’s daughter.” She leaned close. “I doubt any of those will recognize you, but what about the Earl of Chesfield and his officers from the regiment?”
“This is where you will help me, my wife. You will cut them off whenever they try to get near me, or tell them I just stepped out of the room when they ask to meet me. And when it’s time for me to vanish for good, you will claim I am with those who scuttled off to view paintings or exotic plants or whatever entertainments are to be had in this vast house.”
Celia tightened her hold. “Do you truly have to go alone? This is too dangerous.”
“We’ve been through the plan.” Alec pressed his hand over hers. “Padruig will help, and if Will is in that house, we’ll save time if he doesn’t have to be convinced by strangers that I’m waiting for him. He’ll flay me alive for coming after him, but at least he’ll be free to do it.”
Determination burned through him. Celia wasn’t so foolish to insist on accompanying him—she’d hardly be helpful in her skirts and wide panniers, blundering through a dark woodland full of soldiers. Her part was to distract her mother’s guests from cornering Alec or noticing when he’d gone. When the house was thronged, the dancing fully commenced, Celia would slip away and meet him in the appointed place.
The entire ball, in fact, was a diversion. Alec, Lady Flora, and Mrs. Reynolds had planned down to the minute what each of them would do. Celia had watched Alec grow grim as they plotted, the warrior in him erasing the smiling charmer Alec could become. He was a dangerous man, as Celia had sensed the first day she’d met him.
However, even with the officers attending the ball, and the soldiers likely slacking while their superiors went off to an entertainment, Alec would have to move like a ghost as he scouted the old house for a sign of his brother.
“You’ll gleam in the moonlight.” Celia said. “You won’t even need a lantern.”
Alec chuckled. “I have hidden plainer clothes in the woods. Don’t worry about me, wife. I have done this before.”
“That is hardly reassuring.”
Alec slid his arm around her and scooped her to him for a long kiss. The silver threads of his coat and the gold in the la
ce scratched her skin, and the entire garment reeked of perfume. But Alec’s kiss was his, hot, commanding and giving at the same time.
Celia curled her fingers into the lapels of his coat, drinking in the kiss, memorizing the feel of him against her. If he was caught—
It didn’t bear thinking about. Celia’s heart beat faster as she released him. “Godspeed,” she whispered.
Alec kissed her one more time and then, hand in hand, they descended the stairs.
“Oh, I quite agree,” Alec said to Edward and a London fop who’d been at Lady Flora’s salon. “Suppression is the only thing to do. In Ireland as well. The natives there can be quite unruly at very just laws passed to keep the peace. They need to understand those laws are for their own good.”
He sniffed, drew a large handkerchief from his sleeve, and touched it to his nose.
Edward frowned at him in disapproval, but whether at his words or the fluttering handkerchief, Alec had no idea.
“Indeed,” the fop said. He spoke with a nasally lisp. “If the Irish or Scots stir up trouble, they will be crushed underfoot. They must be. If God had not intended us to be their masters, we would not be.”
Ah, yes. The “what is must be right” sentiment. Alec had the feeling that if this young man woke up every morning in a black stone house with a leaky roof and nothing to eat all day but nettles, he might begin to question the rightness of the world.
Alec suppressed his derision and laughed inanely. Edward frowned more, as though having second thoughts about the suitability of Mr. Finn as a husband for his sister.
Alec finished the conversation by drifting away, saying something about finding his dear wife. He scanned the room for her as though out of his depth without her.
Not difficult to feign—he didn’t like Celia being too far from him. Alec strolled through the crowds, nodding and smiling, his wig askew, his handkerchief pressed often to his face. The duke’s cronies eyed him sharply, but he watched the impression that Mr. Finn was an affable fool take hold. Alec knew that an impression, once embedded, was hard to shake off, which suited his purpose. The London ton would look upon him with arrogance, feel superior, and dismiss him.